


Appetite

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Yum-yum Mycroft [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Belly Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, The Author Regrets Nothing, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-25 07:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10759215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: Sherlock walks in on Mycroft contemplating his muffin top and repressed sexual desires finally erupt.





	Appetite

After a long day of avoiding calls from Mummy and obsessively checking if the new governor of Sherrinford was still himself, Mycroft deserved a proper stress relief. Too agitated to watch a film, too worked up to appreciate a hearty, warming meal, he opted for a long bath. While soaking in the warm water was soothing, there was one aspect of it that prevented him from complete relaxation. The moment he sat up to wash his feet, he looked down and saw it: three fat rolls on his stomach. 

It was ridiculous and immature to be so upset by the couple of extra pounds that permanently made his stomach rounded. Vanity and associating perfect physical appearance with happiness and success were unworthy of the smartest Holmes. What did it matter that he had an unnecessary spare tire if his mind was so spectacularly brilliant? There were plenty of obese people who did not let their weight stop them from achieving their goals. Mycroft should have been satisfied with the effects of his diet, he was not as heavy as he was as a teenager. But God, it bothered him so much.

The problem was not just diet and exercise. Mycroft tried both when he was younger and never stopped. The pang of guilt and grief every time he had a taste for a slice of cake became so familiar and frequent that Mycroft hardly imagined living without it. The phase of complete discouragement when he discovered that avoiding sugar was a terribly complicated task lasted a long time. Then the despair when he realised that bread and pasta were not helping him at all, even though they tasted so good. Even alcohol was his enemy, particularly beer and wine. He gave up so much of what he loved, exercised like his life depended on it and the three rolls remained, the only truly permanent thing in his life.

He stepped out of the tub and caught a glimpse of his naked, wet body in the mirror. He came closer to it and studied his reflection for a long moment. 'Oh, God,' he groaned, disheartened by what he saw. He was not looking good, despite all of his painful sacrifices. Moreover, the chances of becoming the person he always wanted to be were, ironically, slim. His age, irregular schedule and stress practically ensured he would not lose weight but gain it. He grimaced as he eyed his belly and hips, then turned a bit to see his bottom. He groaned again.

He put his hands on his stomach and squeezed a huge fold of skin between his fingers. From the purely rational point of view, there were advantages of this. A layer of fat might save his life if he was stabbed and the excess of skin might be helpful if he ever needed a skin graft. And yet Mycroft returned to the old idea of plastic surgery. An unnecessary operation that could have dangerous side effects and the risk of Sherlock finding out. Mycroft then would never hear the end of it.

The thought of Sherlock soured Mycroft's already not too good mood. The youngest Holmes was not only the reason of Mycroft's calming his nerves with chocolate, but also kept bringing up Mycroft's weight, not once bothered by discussing this private matter in public. A part of Mycroft wanted to think that Sherlock was simply monitoring his mental state, as clumsily as he did the same with him. That, however, did not explain the way Sherlock stared at Mycroft's  plumpest body parts. Mycroft then wanted to hiss. 'Yes, I know my arse is fat, stop staring, you obnoxiously thin beanpole!' Because of Sherlock's insulting interest, Mycroft had to constantly control himself during family dinners. God forbid he pat his belly after the meal, Sherlock would then watch him with his huge eyes and lick his lips, surely mockingly. Eating in his presence was stressful in general, Sherlock would barely touch his food, too focused on Mycroft's desperate attempts at taking small bites and not asking for a second serving of potatoes. Visiting the family in the summer was just as dreadful, Sherlock would always encourage him to join him and take a dip in the nearby lake. Oh, that would please him, to see Mycroft's white, flabby stomach and massive thighs in the bright light of the summer sun. Even Mycroft's clever way of masking his insecurity with waistcoats failed, Sherlock could always tell that he had put on weight. Sherlock was lucky that Mycroft had such a soft spot for him and loved him so dearly. Otherwise, he would teach him how to respect other people's weaknesses and be tactful.

Mycroft straightened up, tightened his muscles and held his breath. There, the perfectly flat stomach. For a couple of seconds. He relaxed, exhaled and was once again unhappy with himself. He gripped his fat rolls again, squeezed and moved his hands up and down, then from side to side. If the rolls were staying, he might as well accept them. He continued his movements until something dark in the reflection caught his attention. Sherlock.

 

Fully dressed, cheeks still pink from the cold and the look of utter bewilderment on his face. Both of them frozen in place, staring at each other in the mirror. Mycroft, mortified, suddenly remembered he was completely naked and Sherlock could see his back and front. There was no hiding, everything was on display, each and every imperfection and flaw: freckles, stretch marks, the rolls. He slowly lowered his hands and turned around, hoping he appeared dignified and not embarrassed.

'Yes? May I help you?'

Sherlock needed another couple of seconds to recover from the initial shock. When he did, he dropped a manila file folder he was holding and admiringly fast closed the distance between them. Mycroft did not have enough time to retreat or say anything. Sherlock was right in front of him, wild-eyed and flushed. There was a brief eye contact, that later Mycroft understood was asking for permission. At the time, he only noticed how wide Sherlock's pupils were, despite the bright light in the bathroom. He wondered, only for a second, if he took something before it became clear what caused the pupil dilation.

Sherlock kissed him.

There was nothing gentle about it, all teeth and insatiable hunger, tongue pressing against Mycroft's closed lips and his unexplainable surrender. Sherlock took it as an encouragement to continue. He clung to Mycroft, rubbed his tongue everywhere he could reach and moaned into his mouth.

The only sensible thing to do was to put an end to it, shove Sherlock away, remind him they were biologically related. Not that it would make any difference, Sherlock's life mission was to break every rule and push all the limits, not caring about the consequences Mycroft did not dwell on this too long, distracted, quite effectively, by a hot hardness jabbing into his thigh.

_Oh._

Sherlock shrugged the coat off his shoulders without breaking the contact, threw his beloved Belstaff carelessly to the floor. That alone convinced Mycroft that nothing about this bizarre encounter was casual. The urgency of the kiss, Sherlock's tongue swirling around his own, hands clutching at his slippery arms suggested something entirely different. Deeply hidden, repressed desires that suddenly took over Sherlock, overwhelmed him and made him throw caution to the wind. Mycroft closed his eyes as he understood the true meaning of all those comments about his weight and gazing and the wish to swim together. All those years, when Mycroft tried to control his unhealthy urges, Sherlock was actually doing the same. He fought to repress similarly powerful but less socially accepted desires. The epiphany slowed Mycroft's reaction time, but he firmly told himself to stop Sherlock from making the biggest mistake of his life.

Sherlock continued to crush his lips against Mycroft's, then pulled back minutely to capture Mycroft's lower lip between his teeth. Mycroft breathed in, preparing to deliver a lecture. In a minute. Sherlock dragged his teeth over his lip, hard, Mycroft let him, although he never associated physical intimacy with pain. He always felt awkward when he was asked to be rough, but he also never considered kissing his brother.

He could not possibly find any logical explanation for his reaction. Instead of shaking Sherlock by the shoulders, he raised his hands to cradle the back of Sherlock's head and coaxed him to unclench his jaw and open his mouth. Sherlock quickly obeyed and did not hold back a moan when Mycroft's tongue slipped in. For an endless moment, he let Mycroft lead them, relaxed against his chest. It could not last long, though. There was nothing in his pockets that might explain the throbbing, stiff object trapped between their bodies and the distinctly less frantic pace of Mycroft's kiss was not going to bring him any relief. The insistent grinding and fingernails digging into his arms made Mycroft think, hope, it was only simple sexual frustration, unrelated to him. He could live with himself after letting Sherlock's clothed erection rub against his thigh. But then, right then, Sherlock broke the kiss and whispered against his aching lips, 'God, I've always wanted you like this.'

Mycroft sighed and returned to forming his anti-incest speech in his mind. Forgot all about it when Sherlock slid his hands lower, between them and touched his belly. Tenderly, almost reverently. The shock could not be greater. Sherlock took a small step back and looked down with such exhilaration that Mycroft did not suspect it was all a cruel joke. Sherlock looked like he was seeing a super-fit, well-endowed athlete. He licked his lips and breathed out slowly. 'Exactly like this.'

Wrapping his mind around Sherlock's old, incestuous cravings was complicated on its own. Adding a belly kink was absolutely beyond Mycroft's mental abilities. He stood there, exposed and paralysed by the never-ending string of surprises, while Sherlock stared at the least appealing part of his anatomy with a grin and slowly traced his fingertips over the soft skin.

'Oh, God,' they groaned almost simultaneously, for different reasons. Mycroft was about to smack Sherlock's hands away, cover up and finally start doing crunches regularly, but then Sherlock begged him, sounding honest and desperate,' Please, let me, Mycroft.'

Still half-sulking, Mycroft gave him a nod. Sherlock barely contained his perverse joy as he caressed Mycroft's belly. Soft, careful touches, around the navel, down to his groin and oddly enough, back up to the fattest part, the biggest roll. Sherlock experimentally gripped it between his fingers, mirroring what Mycroft had done earlier, but replaced Mycroft's disgust with his admiration. Mycroft observed this with a frown.

 

There was definitely something wrong with them, he thought. Sherlock sank to his knees and even then paid little attention to Mycroft's misbehaving cock. It nudged his neck quite rudely when he leant closer to press his lips to Mycroft's stomach. Sherlock did not mind, too preoccupied with mouthing at the skin. He clearly intended to stay on his knees for a while, took his time, savouring every second of it. Considering the number of years spent on perfecting the fantasy of this exact moment, his thoroughness was understandable. 

He flattened his tongue against Mycroft's lower belly and moved upwards, tantalisingly slowly to catalogue all the sensations and create the ideal memory. He did not miss a spot, from the top of the pubic hair to the chest, the shining trace of his wet tongue helped him make sure no inch of Mycroft's middle was left unattended. Halfway through this lengthy process, Mycroft stopped feeling ashamed and uncomfortable. The disbelief over the sheer idea of being found attractive in spite of his flaws disappeared when Sherlock met his gaze. Nothing even remotely suggested displeasure. A feeling of pleasant warmth and sheer joy rose up in Mycroft, strong enough to overshadow his brotherly concerns.

When Sherlock was done with licking, he switched to light kisses, then nibbling. Mycroft touched his nape, carded his fingers through the curls, stroked lovingly. He had been so indulgent with Sherlock, there was no point in changing it now. One more line crossed, nothing that would damage Sherlock anyway. God only knew how he handled his unusual needs in the past.

Sherlock massaged him with his fingers and feeling bold, squeezed a fold of skin and sucked it into his mouth. 'Oh, Sherlock,' Mycroft sighed, turned on and offended in equal measure. He wanted to say that there was nothing likeable about his fat rolls, nothing arousing, but he doubted if Sherlock could even hear him at that point. The lustful noises he made, his dedication and enthusiasm, made it very clear that he loved what he was doing.

It lasted long enough for Mycroft to come up with a plan. He was going to let Sherlock fulfil his fantasy, give him as much time as he needed, but it was never going to happen again. He would start locking the bathroom door and confiscate Sherlock's key to his house. There was no way of knowing if someone was watching them and they could afford a scandal of this calibre.

Sherlock rocked his hips in a quite suggestive manner, sneaked a hand between his legs and did not even bother with unfastening his trousers. Mycroft tilted his head and noticed hastened movements of Sherlock's hand against the bulge. He could only imagine the how it would feel in his hand, his cock, hot, heavy and leaking. Sherlock was going to come back to Baker Street with an incriminating, damp spot on his trousers, smiling to himself.

Sherlock gasped against him, shuddered and came, teeth clenching on Mycroft's skin. When the tension left him entirely, he let the fold slip out of his mouth and rested his forehead against Mycroft's belly. The afterglow pleasantly numbed him and he seemed to forget that he was still on his knees. Mycroft did not want to ruin the mood by pushing him away, yet he was still hard, accidentally poking Sherlock and dripping precome on him. The closeness of his body did not help Mycroft with composing himself, the thoughts of ice cold water and the Prime Minister did nothing to his erection. He did not expect Sherlock to take care of it, the way his brother was leaning against him, spent and sated, clearly indicated his lack of interest in any more sexual activity. But for God's sake, he could at least stop releasing those quiet, breathy sighs.

After another minute of this torture, Mycroft shifted slightly, hoping to reach for his towel, anything that could separate him from his brother. That brought Sherlock back to reality, he sat on his folded legs and curiously eyed the source of Mycroft's discomfort. He lifted his hand and teasingly brushed the tips of his fingers against Mycroft's aching length, mesmerised by the resulting twitch and a gasp.

'There's no need, really,' Mycroft said, recalling Sherlock's tendency for biting. His wariness evaporated the moment Sherlock leant in and dragged his tongue up the underside of his cock.

Sherlock's carefulness made Mycroft wonder if this was his first time. He surely knew the general mechanics but lacked experience. His licks were slow, testing the waters. He took his time getting accustomed to the taste and the musk of Mycroft's arousal. The sight of his lips, half-closed, right against the swollen tip was going to stay with Mycroft forever. Sherlock touched him again, more firmly this time, closed his fingers around him to keep him in place and opened his mouth. He bent forward, the head of Mycroft's cock rested on the tip of his tongue and he looked up at him. It was a sheer miracle that Mycroft did not come right then and there. Sherlock wrapped his lips around him, gave an experimental suck and closed his eyes to concentrate. He tongued at the slit, licked across the head and continued his lazy sucking while Mycroft was barely holding on, dizzy with pleasure. The lazy rhythm and Sherlock's both hands now on Mycroft's hips rather than on his shaft proved beyond doubt that Sherlock found this enjoyable and was keen on dragging this out.

He pulled off to nuzzle Mycroft's thigh, then licked a broad stripe from the base to the tip and this time took him in deeper. Mycroft automatically tightened his grip on his hair, telling himself harshly not to thrust into his mouth, regardless of how right it seemed. Instead, he cupped Sherlock's warm cheek and felt him melt into the touch and suck harder. It felt divine, the hot, wet tightness enveloping him, the touch of Sherlock's tongue and the satisfaction of being chosen by Sherlock. He could have anyone and everyone, from obsessive fans to flirtatious adversaries, yet that night ended up on his knees in front of his brother.

His eager sucking and submissive position affected Mycroft more than he expected, it had been ages since he let someone entertain him this way. Just when he was about to give Sherlock a gentlemanly warning, he unexpectedly swallowed him down to the root and hummed. The element of surprise and the vibrations sent him over the edge. He spilt right down Sherlock's throat, elated and horrified, held his head with both hands and tried to catch his breath. Sherlock did not struggle to get away, waited patiently for Mycroft to release him. In the meantime, he stroked his sides soothingly, perhaps telling Mycroft that there was no reason to feel guilty. Sherlock certainly did not regret anything that happened between them. When he was finally back on his feet, he pulled Mycroft into a heated kiss and palmed his belly once again. 

Somehow Mycroft forgot to demand the key back.

**Author's Note:**

> Being in the Mycroft's fandom changes you as a person. I wasn't like this before.


End file.
